


A Broken but Happy Sound

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we do terrible things for no reason. Other times, we have terrible reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Broken but Happy Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nattish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/gifts).



> **Content/Enticements:** established relationship, infidelity, guilty!sex, sad boys being sad  
>  **Author's Notes:** So, nattish. I couldn't fit all of the things you said you love into this little fic because ~tone~ and also ~length~, _but_ man oh man, when I read your first prompt I was like “YES, THIS.” I'm always happy to write some infidelity!fic. Unfortunately, the smut isn't as smutty as we may have hoped, because there were these pesky little “feels” that kept getting in the way, but I hope you like it anyway. So yes. Happy Holidays and all that jazz. (Oh and thanks to M for the quick beta. You're the best. xx.)

Draco jumped at the sound of the door unlocking. He dropped the photograph in his hand back into the shoebox and scrambled to his feet. There was just enough time to kick the box under the bed and flatten his hair before a shadow fell across the floor and Harry stepped into the room.

“You're still here.”

Draco flicked his fringe off his forehead and crossed his arms. No, that didn't feel right. He let them fall to his sides. That didn't feel right either. Pockets! Bless Merlin and his glorious pockets: the perfect receptacle for anxious hands.

“My two o'clock ran late.”

He was going for casual, but it came out defensive. Still, he had every right to be here if he wanted; his name was still on the lease.

When Harry didn't immediately respond, Draco added, “I wasn't able to get here until nearly four.”

There was a slight flex in Harry's jaw. “Well, I need you out by six. I've got mates coming over.”

Without another word, Harry turned and disappeared down the hallway. Draco stared after him, dumbfounded. That was it? After weeks of passive aggressive Owls, that was all he had to say? He had expected shouting, accusations, the big blow out they'd never had a chance to have.

To be entirely honest, Draco felt a bit cheated.

He found Harry in the kitchen, unpacking a brown paper bag of groceries. Leaning against the doorjamb, Draco fingered a splinter in the wood. He'd always meant to have that sanded down.

“Having a party then?”

Harry's eyes flickered up to meet his, his glare so cold a Dementor would have reached for his jumper.

“Do you really think I'm in a celebrating sort of mood?”

Draco shrugged, returning his attention to the wood. “You're rid of me. Some would say that's more than enough reason to break out the bubbly.”

From the bag, Harry pulled out a dark green bottle of champagne and set it in the center of the table.

***

Draco ran his finger across the mantle and held it out for Harry to examine. “This place is absolutely filthy.”

With a puff of Harry's breath, the fine layer of dust disappeared from the tip of Draco's finger. “All clean now.”

“That's cheating.” Draco tried to pout, but he could fight the dopey smile fighting its way onto his face. Just looking at Harry's self-satisfied grin was enough to send the butterflies in his stomach into a full gymnastic routine. A part of him was still in denial that this was actually happening, that he and Harry were actually looking at flats together.

The estate agent leaned against the open door, her high-heeled foot tapping. “Nothing's changed since the last time you looked at it.” She glanced down at her watch with a sigh. “Still a mixed Muggle/Magical building,” she drawled, “still nine-hundred-and-fifty square feet, still a four minute walk to Sainsburys and a thirty second Floo to Diagon Alley.”

Draco ignored her and tugged Harry towards the window. “Is this the one?” he asked, pressing his face against the cool pane of glass. From their spot on the fourth floor, he could see a quiet dog park across the street, its trees in full bloom. “Could we be happy here?”

He didn't look up as he felt Harry's fingers thread through his, though his stomach did the most pleasant little swoop. Harry's breath tickled his ear as he nuzzled Draco's neck and whispered, “I could be happy anywhere. As long as I was with you.”

Draco closed his eyes, basking in the warm waves of Harry's affection as they washed over him. The heat he felt deep in his belly had nothing to do with the early summer weather.

He turned towards the estate agent, his dopey smile now a full blown grin.

“We'll take it.”

***

The green bottle sat on the table between them, a giant, cosmic joke that mocked Draco with its otherwise innocuous existence. Harry didn't even fancy champagne. He preferred lager and whiskey and other predictably masculine drinks.

Draco tried again for casual. He was going to get a response, come hell or high water. “So this party...” He stepped into the kitchen and picked up the bottle, pretending to read the label. “Will Weasley be there?”

Something dark flashed across Harry's face. He snatched the bottle from Draco's hands and shoved it into the cupboard, slamming the cupboard door shut.

Harry didn't even look at him as he grumbled, “Wouldn't you like to know.”

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the knot of wood on the kitchen table that his finger had begun circling. He couldn't bear to look at Harry just then. He wanted this row, but was scared of it at the same time. “I was just curious,” he said, hating how meek it sounded.

“Yeah, well, curiosity killed the kneazle,” Harry said dryly. He shifted, crossing his arms. “My mates are not your business. And as of three weeks ago, I'm not your business either.”

Draco let out a little puff of breath. “Is it that easy for you?” he asked. “Just like that, it's over? After everything? You think you can just rip me off and toss me away like I'm some sort of used elastoplast?”

Harry leaned back against the counter. “Elastoplasts help things heal, Draco. They make things better. You just tear them apart.”

Draco glared at the knot in the table top. It looked like a bulls-eye, perfect for punching.

“I'll take responsibility for some of it,” he said, measuring his words carefully. “Most of it," he amended. "But not all of it.”

He had already done the crying bit, letting the guilt gnaw away at him for the past few weeks. But that sort of self-flagellation wasn't in his nature and he found that he couldn't sustain the emotion. He may have done the unforgivable, but it wasn't without context. He'd been in the wrong and he knew it, but he wasn't going down without a fight.

Harry let out of a breathless puff of dry laughter. “You're going to try and blame this on me? Christ, Draco. You're a real piece of work, you know that?”

“I'm not blaming you,” Draco said, fighting to keep his voice level. “I'm just saying that it could have been avoided... had things been different.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a snort. “Like if you weren't such a selfish arsehole. Or, maybe if you weren't so desperate for any crumb of attention thrown your way.”

Draco looked up. As much as he was loathe to admit it, there was truth to Harry's accusations. He wanted to sneer and say something cutting and sarcastic like, 'you wound me,' but that wouldn't be sarcasm at all. Harry's insult made the suppressed guilt in his belly churn, mixing with a not inconsiderable amount of latent self-loathing.

He wanted to be proud and defiant. He wanted to tell Harry to go to hell and storm out of the flat. Instead, he hung his head.

Harry pushed away from the counter. His shoulders knocked Draco's as he swept out of the kitchen. “Get the rest of your shit and be out by six.”

***

Draco was halfway down the hall when he realized that there was something off about what he'd just seen. He backed up a few paces and stuck his head around the edge of the door.

“I thought you already unpacked that suitcase?”

Harry looked up, blinking at him from behind his glasses. “What? Oh! No, I have. I'm repacking. Kingsley just sent an Owl. The International Confederation of Aurors is having its annual conference in Geneva this weekend and Robards' youngest just came down with Dragon Pox. I've got to go in his place.”

“But we've just moved in!” Draco cried, stepping fully into the room. “We haven't even finished unpacking!” He gestured to the half-empty boxes littering their new bedroom as evidence. “I was going to invite people round on Saturday. I thought we could have a housewarming party.”

He was proud of himself for not pouting. Well, maybe he was pouting. But only a little.

Harry tossed the pair of pants in his hand into his suitcase and climbed to his feet. “I'm sorry,” he said, crossing the room with his arms outstretched. Draco let himself be pulled into a hug, though he didn't feel much like returning the embrace. “Imagine what it would look like to the international community if the UK didn't send a representative.”

Draco tried to squirm out of Harry's grip. “Imagine what it would look like to me if you swanned off our first weekend living together. Tell them to send someone else.”

Reaching up, Harry tucked a piece of hair behind Draco's ear. “I'm not just swanning off. It's my responsibility as Deputy Head Auror. You understand.”

Draco didn't understand, so he just huffed and squirmed some more.

“Come on,” continued Harry, “it's just for a few days. I'll make it up to you. I'll be back on Monday, and we can warm the house properly: we'll fuck in every single room of this sodding flat just like we'd planned. And we can always have people over next weekend. All right?”

Even the promise of vigorous sexual activity wasn't enough to make Draco feel better. “But next weekend isn't our first weekend here,” he grumbled, not even bothering to hide his petulance this time. “It's just like any other weekend. It's not special.”

The affectionate petting of Draco's hair ceased. Harry pulled back a few inches. “Will you cut me some slack?” he asked, a tad sharp. “It's not like I want to go; I _have_ to.”

Draco yanked himself free of Harry's grip. “Whatever,” he said as he turned towards the doorway. He wasn't going to beg, not if Harry was going to be like this. “Do as you like.”

“It's not as I like!” Harry called after him. “Come on, Draco. Are you really _that_ upset?”

“Of course I'm--”

Draco cut himself off at the look on Harry's face. Harry looked miserable and torn, as though he were on the verge of shirking his responsibilities just to keep Draco happy. Draco knew he couldn't let him do that, couldn't demand Harry jeopardize his career, no matter how desperately he wanted to be that selfish. Relationships were about compromise. He could do that. He could compromise.

They would have every other weekend for the rest of their lives together. One wouldn't hurt, even if it was their first.

Draco sighed. “No, Harry," he lied. "Of course I'm not.”

 

***

Draco followed Harry down the hall, unwilling to let him have the final word. Harry had returned to the bedroom and was spelling Draco's clothes out of their shared wardrobe, flinging them carelessly into the boxes Draco had brought with him.

He looked up when he heard Draco enter. “Just thought I'd give you a hand.”

“How benevolent of you,” Draco said with a sneer, shoving Harry out of the way. He was going to have to refold all of this by hand now.

Harry retreated, but didn't leave the room. Draco could see him out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the wall, watching with a frown. The room was largely silent, except for the quiet rustle of cloth.

“All right,” Harry said at last. “I'll bite. How could things have been different?”

Draco paused, stroking the wool of the jumper in his hands as he considered his answer. He could have said that Harry could have been there that night to stop it, but that would have only prolonged the inevitable. It didn't matter when it happened, just that it had. And that it probably would have happened eventually anyway.

Carefully, Draco placed the jumper into the box and said, “You could have cared more.”

He chanced a glance at Harry, who was staring at him, eyes wide and outraged.

“How could you say that to me?” Harry demanded a moment later, once he'd recovered from the shock of Draco's statement. “I cared about you more than anything, you unbelievable prick. You were my entire world!”

Draco's hands were shaking as he reached for the next pair of trousers that needed refolding. He had to stay calm and in control. If he could just get through this, he might still be able to walk out of the flat with his head held high.

“We both know that's not true,” he said measuredly. “You may have loved me Harry, but there's always been something you cared about more.”

***

The back of Draco's head pressed into the pillow, his eyes rolling back in his head as Harry's teeth sank into his neck. His entire body was shaking as he struggled to hold on, to stave off his impending orgasm. He didn't want it to be over, not yet. Not when Harry felt so bloody marvelous buried inside his body, not when Harry's thick cock was spearing him open, its fleshy head rubbing so dangerously sweet against his prostate. He wanted to drag it out just a little bit longer, to suspend himself in this glorious sensation and never let it go.

A booming voice, thickened by a Northern accent, cut through the humid air of their flat.

_“Potter? Are you in? I know it's late. Are you there?”_

Draco groaned, the crest of his pleasure slipping away. He shoved at Harry's shoulders. “You didn't turn off the Floo?!”

Harry blinked unfocused eyes at him, the snap of his hips slowing. “What?” he asked. Then, “Fuck! Sorry!”

_“Potter! Answer your damn Floo! I'll send you a Howler if I have to!”_

Harry's hips stilled completely. “Shit. It's Robards.”

Draco twisted his grip on Harry's hair. “Don't you dare.” He hooked his legs around Harry's waist and rolled his hips, trying to coax Harry back into motion. “You _will not_ answer a work call when you're buried balls deep inside of me.”

Harry's eyes fluttered shut as he groaned. Miserably, he whined, “But it might be important.”

_“Potter! We've gotten a break in the Livingston case! Auror Spires just arrested Livingston's son with fifteen grams of pixie dust on him. We need you in that interrogation room before his solicitor shows up!”_

Harry bit his lip, eyes darting between Draco and the open bedroom door.

Draco sighed and let his legs fall back onto the bed. “Just go.”

For a moment, Harry looked as though he might actually stay. But then he lunged forward with a burst of energy that had nothing to do with the sex they'd just been having and caught Draco's mouth in a bruising kiss. “I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

Draco winced as Harry withdrew and leaped out of the bed. He rolled onto his side, tugging the rumpled covers over his shoulder. Harry was in his trousers and out of the room so quickly, Draco didn't think he'd even heard his quietly mumbled, “See you in the morning.”

But when Draco awoke the next morning, feeling thoroughly unfulfilled and sticky from dried lube, Harry's side of the bed was still cold.

***

The fight melted from Harry's shoulders. He looked at the floor, posture slumped.

“I apologized for that,” he said quietly. “Repeatedly. With presents.”

Draco stared at the toes of his own shoes. He'd wanted an argument complete with screaming, yelling, and smashing plates, but that apparently wasn't what he was going to get. A fight would be so much easier than this. Anger came naturally to him; its burn felt more familiar in his stomach than this knot of dread.

“It wasn't just that time though, was it?” he forced himself to ask, unable to even muster the bitterness he'd intended. This felt all too solemn. All too final.

Harry sighed and slid down the wall to the floor. Crossing his arms over his knees, he hung his head.

“No, it wasn't,” he admitted. A long pause, and then, quietly, “I'm sorry if I work too much, if you felt like I put it ahead of you. It's just...it's what I do, who I am. I know I wasn't always the best boyfriend ever but—” he looked up suddenly, his face twisted in anguish but his voice laced with determination, “—but I didn't _deserve_ that.”

Draco looked away in shame. He couldn't argue that point.

“How could you have done that to me?” Harry continued. “And with—” he faltered. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed down the name. “Were you _trying_ to hurt me as much as you possibly could? Could you really be that cruel? Why? Why him?”

A part of Draco wanted to join Harry on the floor. Standing seemed like more effort than it was worth. He wanted to just give into the slow, sinking sensation in his chest.

But he didn't fall to the ground, at least not physically. Whether it was strength of will or steer stubbornness, Draco remained upright and reached for another wrinkled jumper. He had to go his cold place, the place inside where he locked away the memories of all the terrible things he'd ever done. In there, it was nothing more than a library, a personal archive, of misdeeds. A list of names, places, and dates—just the cold, hard facts, the things that had happened and could never be changed, dealt with and organized and filed away in the back of his mind.

This might not have been his worst crime, but it was certainly his most intimate.

“It wasn't about him,” Draco said, trying to shrug off his guilt with a casual lift and drop of his shoulders. “He was just there. It could have been anyone.”

Harry gave a bitter laugh. “Oh? And is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Draco stole a glance at Harry, but couldn't stand to look at him for longer than a moment. He hated the way the shame made his skin prickle.

“No,” he said, shutting the lid of his trunk. “But it is the truth.”

 

***

Draco fell onto the sofa, causing his fifth firewhiskey of the evening to slop over the side his glass. He hadn't even bothered trying to keep count how many glasses of champagne he'd had.

Ron slumped into the spot next to him, making the cushions under them bounce and the liquid contents of Draco's stomach slosh inside him. Draco gave an unhappy grunt and glared half-heartedly in Weasley's direction.

“How is it, that of all my friends, the only decent one is actually Harry's?” Draco asked as he surveyed the dismal state of his living room. Crossing his arms, he added, “I didn't even want to have this bloody party.”

Ron leaned over and flicked a piece of confetti from Draco's hair. Draco swatted Ron's hand away and took a poorly aimed snap at it with his teeth.

“Oi!” said Ron sternly, pointing a thick, sausage-like finger in Draco's face. “No biting.”

When Draco only huffed and rolled his eyes in response, Ron added, “And come on, you and Harry have been living together for over a year already. I think its safe to say I'm your friend too by now.”

“Has it been a year already?” Draco asked wearily, looking once more around the flat he and Harry lived in. Or more accurately, that _he_ lived in and Harry occasionally visited when he wasn't out vanquishing kittens and saving evil, or whatever the hell it was that Aurors did these days.

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner chimed; it was officially three o'clock in the morning. Draco wondered what Harry was doing right now. Sleeping in some dingy motel? Staking out some dodgy warehouse? Fucking some doe-eyed twink who was posing as a potions smuggler but was actually an undercover Russian operative? It'd been two days since Harry had owled him last. For all Draco knew, he could be dead.

“Besides,” Ron continued, swiping his half-empty beer from the coffee table, “I didn't stay to help you tidy up out of the goodness of my heart. I'm not exactly keen to go home right now.”

Draco's head felt extraordinary heavy on his neck, and it took quite a lot of effort to swing it towards Harry's friend. His friend too, he supposed. _Their_ friend. One of the many mutual things they shared now, though Draco seemed to be spending more time with Ron these days than he was his own boyfriend.

He studied the firm set of Ron's jaw, the way his eyes were fixed on a spot of carpet just beyond the coffee table as though he could make the synthetic fibers catch fire with just his mind.

“Rowing with the missus, I take it?” he asked.

Ron's stare broke. He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “Can't tell if this is a new fight, or the same one we've been having for years.”

Draco let his head loll back and stared at the ceiling. Christ, did it ever need a fresh coat of paint.

“I'd offer you advice, but I'm afraid I'm no good at this relationship crap either. My boyfriend can't even be arsed to be in the same country as me on my fucking birthday.”

“Hey,” Ron said, the cushions squishing below them as he angled himself towards Draco. “Harry would be here if he could. You know he would.”

“Yeah, well...” Draco tried to think of something snappy to say, but couldn't be bothered. Harry _could_ be here if he wanted to. He just didn't want to. Not enough, at least.  “Whatever.”

He reached for one of the throw pillows and plucked at a loose strand, unwilling to look up. He could feel Ron watching him. Didn't Weasley know how dangerous it was to speak tenderly to a notoriously soppy drunk? Draco had spent half of New Years crying in the toilet because he spilled wine on his favorite shirt. There was no telling what would happen if the tears that prickled the back of his eyes fell now.

The shrieking laughs of his departed friends had long disappeared, the freshly washed champagne flutes and cake plates were tucked back into the cupboard. All that was left of his big birthday blowout was this. Him and the Weasel. The Weasel and him. And hat a miserable fucking pair they made.

“It's hard on him too, you know,” Ron continued, obviously unable to take a fucking hint. His voice was soft and understanding, so different from the booming timbre Draco was accustomed to hearing rumble out of him. “I was on assignment when Rose was born. She was premature, so we weren't to know, but still... It nearly killed me, knowing I'd missed out on that.”

Draco sneaked a curious glance at this new 'friend' he knew so little about. “Is that why you transferred to Magical Creatures?”

Ron sat back and returned his attention his drink, wiping the condensation off the neck of the sweating bottle. “Mostly. If you think the fights Hermione and I have now are something, you should have seen us back then. They were spectacular after that.”

Draco pulled at the thread, watching with satisfaction as the seam split open to reveal the tangled white of the stuffing. He and Harry had bought that pillow from a tiny antiques shop in London three weeks before they'd moved in together. He'd loved it then, but now he just wanted to tear it apart.

“I wish Harry would quit,” he muttered. “I hate this bloody flat sometimes.”

Ron looked around the room. A year in, and it was still mostly undecorated. There was furniture, of course, and a lamp and some odds and ends, but none of the personal touches that would have made it a real home. Draco had almost been too embarrassed to have people over that evening.

“It seems pretty lonely,” Ron said quietly.

“Yeah. Sometimes it really is.”

With a heavy sigh, Ron drained the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It can still be lonely, you know, even if someone is there. Having Harry around more won't necessarily solve all your problems. Hell, you might even get to a point where you'd kill for a few minutes to yourself.”

Draco frowned. Did he and Harry have problems besides Harry's demanding and quite frankly absurd work schedule? He didn't think they did; but then again, how would he even know?

He chanced another glance at Ron, whose face had hardened again as he glared at that same distant spot on the floor.

Draco had never seen someone look so determinedly resigned to unhappiness as Ron did at that moment. Well, as long as he didn't count the face he often saw staring back at him in the mirror.

But it didn't have to be like this, did it? They were two lonely, miserable people, but that didn't mean they couldn't be lonely and miserable together. Maybe for a few minutes at least, they could be something else entirely.

Leaning forward, Draco laid his hand on Ron's knee.

***

“The truth?” Harry repeated. “Forgive me if I don't trust a single word that comes out of your mouth.”

Draco said nothing. It's not like it would make a difference anyway.

Gathering his final things, Draco shrunk each of his boxes until they were small enough to be comfortably carried in his arms. He tried to ignore the weight of Harry's gaze as it tracked his movements around the bedroom, but it was useless. He'd always been hyper-aware of Harry's presence, and probably always would be.

“I guess that's it then,” Draco said dully, fishing his wand from his pocket. In less than thirty seconds, he'd be out of Harry's life forever and Harry would be out of his. He thought there should have been more fanfare than this.

Closing his eyes, Draco imagined his old bedroom at the Manor. If there was any place to crawl to to lick one's wounds, Malfoy Manor was it. His mother would make him tea and pet his hair and wouldn't tell a living soul if he didn't get out of bed for an entire week.

But before he could summon the determination necessary to Disapparate, he felt a hand close around his wrist.

“Draco... Wait.”

Draco opened his eyes. He hadn't heard Harry climb to his feet or move across the floor, but he obviously had, because he was standing right in front of him, green eyes bearing hard into his.

“Please,” he said softly.

Draco closed his eyes again. He felt himself begin to tremble, unable to endure Harry's proximity. Here was the man he'd loved— _still_ loved—and betrayed, standing inches away from him, looking at him with doleful, pleading eyes. What they were begging him for, he didn't know. An explanation? An apology? An admittance of guilt?

He'd given all of those already. What else was left?

Harry stepped closer, and Draco's trembling turned to shaking. He wanted to throw his arms around Harry, to pull him closer, to never let him go. But he couldn't, not anymore. He'd relinquished that right the night he'd laid on his back and spread his legs for Harry's best friend. It was just one stupid, momentary lapse in judgment, driven by drink and desperation and the need to feel like he mattered to someone, anyone, if just for a moment. Just one stupid decision and everything he _really_ wanted had crumbled around him, leaving him more alone and unwanted than he'd ever been.

It was the Malfoy way, wasn't it? If it's not perfect, just burn it to the ground.

“I still love you,” Harry admitted quietly, standing so close that Draco could feel the heat from his body radiating off him. “I wish I didn't, but I do.”

Draco tried to respond, but his voice got caught in his dry throat and came out broken and scratchy. He licked his lips and tasted salt.

“Why did you tell me?” Harry asked, stepping closer still. His hands were balled into fists, hovering just inches from Draco's biceps, as if he might reach out at any moment and grab him by the arms and shake him in frustration. “You could have not told me, I could have not known,” he continued, voice still pleading. “And then we'd still be together, and everything would have been fine. _Why_ did you have to tell me?”

Draco took a step back. Not out of fear that Harry would grab him, but so he could look into Harry's eyes.

“You'd rather I lied?” he asked. Harry Potter, champion and Justice and Truth and all those wonderful moralistic things, would have rather been lied to?

“Why not?” Harry asked, with a breathless puff of laughter that sounded half-deranged. “You lie about everything else: how much your shoes cost, how much you ate at dinner, who you voted for the last election. What's one more? We could still be together, we could still be happy. Why couldn't you have lied this time too? Just for me?”

Draco took another step back, his head spinning. He stumbled towards the bed and sat on the edge.

“This isn't--” he began. He had to stop because breathing was getting difficult. Panic and confusion were rising in his chest, pushing out the little reserve of air he had left. “This isn't like lying about eating the last biscuit in the tin,” he choked out, voice trembling. “This is...” bigger, he wanted to say. “I couldn't have—” just lied to you, he thought.

But how he'd wanted to. God, how he'd wanted to just pretend the whole thing had never happened. And for the first day after, he'd thought he might be able to. But things like this have a way of coming out, and he knew even then that every day that went by without his admission, the lie and the guilt would grow between them: larger and larger until it was entirely insurmountable.

He'd had to tell Harry; there was no other choice. There was no absolution for a sin of omission.

***

The last time Draco checked the clock on the bedside table it'd read eleven o'clock. That'd been a few hours ago, and even though he knew it was well past noon, he didn't see much reason in getting out of bed. He'd fallen into it more than thirty-six hours previous, and besides getting up to see Ron out, change the sheets, and vomit a few times, he hadn't seen much point in doing it again.

His sleep was fretful and shallow, never letting him escape the impending sense of doom that weighed him down for more than a few hours at a time. He'd slept fine at first, alcohol and a warm body next to his conspiring to lull him into unconsciousness. But when the cold light of morning and a hangover from hell showed him what he'd done, sleep became an impossible, fleeting thing. His body was stiff and sore from an entire day of lying down, but nothing could compel him to crawl out of the shelter of sheets and pillows he'd built for himself to wallow in.

Nothing, except for an unexpected clap of apparition in the living room.

Draco shot up, gathering the covers around his waist in a vain attempt at modesty as he heard heavy footsteps approach the room. Harry wasn't due home for two more days. Who the fuck could it be?

Please God, don't let it be Weasley back for round two.

A familiar voice drifted through the shut bedroom door. “Draco? You're not still sleeping, are you?”

Harry! He was home early! The small amount of dread Draco had felt at the prospect disappeared in an instant. Throwing off the covers, he hurtled towards the door and yanked it open. He threw himself into Harry's arms with such force that he knocked him back a step.

Laughing, Harry squirmed out of Draco's grip and shoved a rather crushed bouquet of flowers at him. “I came home as soon as I could,” he said sheepishly. “Happy Birthday, Draco.”

Draco took the flowers, heart arching as he recognized the violets and plum blossoms for what they were. Guilt welled in him as he recalled old potions lessons and heard Snape's cold voice in his head. Violets were for fidelity, plum blossoms for promises unbroken.

He pushed away the ache and tossed the bouquet over his shoulder, wrapping his body around Harry's and pulling him into their bedroom. He didn't want to talk or to think; he didn't want to remember. He wanted to feel something besides the shame that had been festering inside him for the past day. Harry was here. Harry would make it all better.

Harry laughed against Draco's lips as he allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed. “Miss me?” he asked, not giving Draco a chance to reply before covering him with his body.

Draco closed his eyes, letting everything—all those terrible thoughts and feelings—seep out of him until he was hollow inside. With everything else gone, he could be refilled by the warmth of Harry's breath on his skin, the tender touch of Harry's lips, the reassuring firmness of Harry's cock pressed against his hip.

Clad only in his pants, it took no time for Harry to strip Draco down. Lying naked on freshly laundered sheets, Draco watched greedily, covetously, as Harry slowly shed his own clothing. Their heavy breaths rose above them as they moved into familiar positions, naked limbs intertwined and open mouths blindly seeking any stretch of skin to kiss and lick and love.

Draco winced when Harry entered him, and for a moment when he opened his eyes, he saw a shock of ginger hair above him. “No,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

He wouldn't think of that now, he couldn't.

When he opened his eyes again, Harry was there above him: black hair and green eyes and golden skin shining with a thin layer of sweat. Draco had never been so happy to see him, so happy to see anyone.

“What's wrong?” Harry asked, hips stilling, eyes full of concern. “Am I hurting you?”

Draco shook his head and lifted his legs. He wrapped them around Harry's waist and urged him to move. His heels bumped against the small of Harry's back with each glorious, burning thrust. But still, Harry felt too far away, too distant. Draco pulled at his shoulders until Harry took the hint and collapsed on top of him, their sweat-slick chests pressing together. Harry's rhythm never faltered, though his head dropped to the crook of Draco's neck.

“Don't leave me,” Draco whispered as his fingers worked their way through the thick hair on the back of Harry's head. “Please don't leave me.”

“Never,” Harry said as his hips pressed forward and Draco's back arched off the bed, lips falling open in silent surprise. “Never,” Harry repeated like a prayer against Draco's skin. “Never leave you, Draco. Love you.”

A guilty, selfish sort of pleasure sparked in Draco's gut, mingling with the pressing need that was growing in his groin. He knew it was true, that Harry loved him. He knew it in the tips of toes and the roots of his hair. But still, he wanted to hear it again, to feel its truth as deeply as he felt Harry's cock.

“Again,” Draco pleaded, arms winding around Harry's back, legs gripping him tight. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Harry repeated. His hips picked up pace, his thrusts became shorter and harsher. Thrusting his hand between their bodies, Harry wrapped his hands around Draco's cock, red and aching and so far neglected, squeezing and pulling it in time with the pump of his hips. “Love you,” he repeatedly mindlessly. “Love you, Draco. Love you so fucking much.”

Draco knew his fingernails were digging into Harry's skin; he knew that he had to be hurting him. But he couldn't stop it. He needed something to hold onto. He was falling, falling over the edge of his orgasm, hurtling himself off a cliff and onto a bed of broken dreams and promises. He had to hold on as long as he could, because he knew it was the last time he'd be wrapped so tightly in Harry's arms.

It would be the last time he heard those words.

It seemed neither could hold on much longer, no matter how desperately they each wanted to. One more declaration of love, whispered directly into Draco's ear, perfectly timed with a soul-splitting thrust and knee-weakening squeeze, and Draco lost himself into Harry's fist. His body seized, pulled taut and suspended in a moment of pure bliss and love. Harry followed him over the edge, swearing gently against his skin as his hips stilled and his breath stopped completely.

Draco wanted to hold on to it, to bask in the satiated glow of post-orgasmic warmth, to feel loved and needed and wanted and chosen. But the banks of bliss receded faster than they ever had before, and the only warmth he felt was rapidly cooling on his stomach.

“We should get dressed,” Draco said quietly, pushing at Harry's shoulders.

Harry, obviously still warm and safe in his happy little haze of ignorance, blinked in confusion as he rolled onto the mattress. “Is something wrong?”

Draco almost said no, but that would have been a terrible lie. _Everything_ was wrong.

He fished Harry's pants from the sea of tangled sheets and tossed them in his direction. It was time to go to his cold place.

“Put these on, Harry. We need to talk.”

***

“Yeah,” Harry said with a sigh, sinking onto the edge of the bed next to Draco. Draco was overcome by the waring urges to scoot closer and away. “If you hadn't told me, and I found out otherwise... It would have been—” Harry didn't say what it would have been, just exhaled sharply and shook his head.

“—Worse."

Harry nodded. “It was pretty fucking terrible as it was. I don't even want to imagine worse.”

Draco fought the urge to pull his knees to his chest and bury his face between them. He wanted to crawl inside himself at that moment. His opportunity to leave emotionally unscathed had come and gone.

“So...” Harry said slowly. “What now?”

Draco looked up. They'd broken up; Draco had already packed his things. He was going to leave soon and they were never going to speak again. What else could there possibly be?

Harry's eyes flickered up to meet Draco's for a moment, before they fell again.

“I can't even look at you,” Harry said thickly. “And when I can, all I can think about is punching your fucking teeth out.” He snorted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as if he were imagining doing just that. “But sometimes when I see you, I—” he shook his head. “Sometimes I just want to grab you and hold you and never let you go. It's sick. I should hate you for what you did. And I do. I really fucking hate you sometimes, Draco. But other times...” he drifted off, voice strained.

Draco didn't realize he was speaking until he heard the sound of his own voice. “Other times you don't?”

Harry nodded miserably. He reached a hand up, running it through his hair. “But other times I don't hate you at all. And even when I hate you, I still love you. And that...that's actually worse.”

They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock on the beside table and the rustle of leaves against the window.

“I still love you too,” Draco said quietly. “For what it's worth—which, you know, probably isn't much.”

Harry's head was still bent, but Draco caught him watching him from the corner of his eye. He tried to smile at him, but it came out as a grimace.

Instead of responding, Harry flopped back against the mattress and stared blankly at the ceiling.

Carefully, Draco lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. He rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up, carefully studying Harry face, watching closely for a sign of what he was thinking or any flicker of emotion.

Harry must not have been exaggerating about not being able to look at him, because he sighed and closed his eyes before he rolled onto his own side, pulling up his knees and mirroring Draco's position on the bed. Their hands were both steepled together as if in prayer, tucked beneath their heads like sleeping children.

They were so close, closer than they'd been since the morning Harry had returned. Draco could just reach out and touch Harry if he wanted. He could brush the fringe off his forehead or lay his hand on Harry's arm.

Instead, he waited, heart thumping loudly in his chest as the silent minutes dragged on. He closed his own eyes and counted his breaths, trying vainly to slow them down as anxiety and anticipation spurred them quicker.

“I can't imagine a world without you in it.”

Startled by the sound of Harry's voice, Draco blinked his eyes open. Harry was looking at him hard, his shocking green gaze penetrating. There was defiance in them, but also something softer, something vulnerable. Something that looked like fear.

“I can't imagine a world without you in it either,” said Draco, unconsciously inching closer. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped dead in his tracks, heart beating wildly against his ribcage. “But I can't... I couldn't just be friends with you.”

Harry's eyes closed again and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. A wry smile twisted his lips. “I've _never_ wanted to be your friend, Malfoy.”

When Harry reopened his eyes, Draco's heart skipped a beat. When he'd come here that afternoon he'd been without hope. He hadn't even hoped to hope. He had been fully resigned to the fact this was the end, the final nail in the coffin. He'd been prepared to go out kicking and screaming, to cement the death of them with the kind of argument that made the neighbors call the police.

But here they were, lying less than a foot away from each other on a bed they'd shared for over a year. They'd declared their mutual feelings and now Harry was _smiling_. Sure, it was an ironic smile, but it had followed a joke, a joke that carried so much weight and declared the tepid path of an awkward post-breakup attempt at friendship off the table.

They couldn't not know each other. They just couldn't be friends. That left only one viable option.

Did he dare to dream?

Draco scooted closer again, consciously this time. He reached out and took Harry's hand in his, threading their fingers together. He said nothing, watching as the smile slid off Harry's face as he stared at their joined hands.

Biting his lip, Harry looked up. His eyes searched Draco's and Draco let them, forcing himself to hold Harry's gaze. This was not the time for his cold place. This was a time for his place of warmth and light and love, the place that hadn't existed until Harry and would likely cease to exist without him.

“What now?” Harry repeated in a whisper.

“I don't know,” Draco said, voice half caught in his throat.

And it was the truth. He had no bloody idea what would come next, if anything. He'd done something terrible, something unforgivable, but if there was even a chance that he could be forgiven, that there was a 'what now' that included having Harry in his life and in his bed, he had to fight for it. 

It wasn't planned. It was nothing but pure impulse that propelled Draco those final few inches, that caught his lips in Harry's and pressed Harry onto his back. If he'd had time to think, he might have expected Harry to push him away, to protest somehow. But Harry didn't. Harry's mouth just opened under his, his fingers digging painfully into Draco's shoulders as if worried Draco would run away if he relaxed his grip even a fraction.

Kisses borne of impulse and desperation are, by their nature, artless. Teeth collided, noses bumped, and spit got everywhere. To a spectator, it would have been repulsive, but to Draco it was the most glorious kiss he'd ever been a party to. He poured his heart into Harry's mouth: all of his fears and insecurities and anxieties, but also all his uncontrollable need and desperate _want_. Everything he could never say, everything he could never admit, poured out of him and into that kiss.

And when they finally broke apart, glassy-eyed and gasping for air, Harry looked at him in a way Draco had never seen him look at him before. There was awe mixed in with the trepidation, longing combined with the confusion.

“I don't know if I can do this,” Harry said, voice tight.

Draco's heart plummeted, and he had the immediate sensation of hurtling himself off the cliff again. He tried to roll off Harry, but Harry's grip on his shoulders strengthened, holding him in place. Draco could feel tears prickling behind his eyes, but there was no way he was going to let them fall. He couldn't let Harry see that. Couldn't admit how deeply this rejection would cut him.

“I don't know if I can do this,” Harry repeated. He reached up, wiping away a traitorous tear that had fallen without Draco's permission. “But I know that I can't not try.”

Draco looked up, startled and blinking though more tears that had formed without him knowing. “W-what?” 

“I wish to god that I didn't, Draco, but I love you so fucking much. I can't—no, I don't _want_ to live without you. I thought I wanted it, I thought I wanted you gone forever, but the thought of letting you walk out of that door kills me. I couldn't let you do it, I couldn't let you leave. ”

Harry's grip on his shoulders was crushing, but Draco didn't care. He welcomed the pain, relished it even. It was Harry, _his_ Harry, refusing to let him go.

“Then I won't,” Draco whispered. The tears were falling steadily now, he didn't have a prayer of holding them back. “I won't leave, Harry. I promise, I never will. Please don't make me leave.”

Harry smiled without irony  as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind Draco's ear. “Well, you can leave sometimes,” he said softly. “To go to work and such. I can't support the both of us, not with how much you spend on shoes.”

Draco laughed. It was a broken, but happy sound.

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/7685.html).


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